My Own Space, My Father’s Words

Second week of December 2024 — I got my own apartment.

It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was perfect. Just the right size for me and my boy. Walking distance to a park with trails. Close to the bus stop for school drop-offs and pick-ups. It had everything I needed — freedom, simplicity, and a chance to breathe again.

And for Bend, Oregon? It was a damn good price.

After months on the ranch, sharing space with my soon-to-be ex’s parents, finally having a place of my own felt like stepping out of a fog.

It was the first time in a long time I could walk into any room without bracing myself — no silent tension, no waiting for the next argument, no walking on eggshells. Just peace.

Man… that felt good.

My dad had given me a piece of advice not long before:

“Take care of yourself first. Then take care of my grandson.”

That one stuck.

Over the past year and change, I’ve carried those words like a compass. My dad doesn’t say much about life, but when he does, it usually lands deep. The older I get, the more I realize — the advice was never the problem. The problem was whether or not I chose to listen.

Living in my own place gave me the space to finally start listening.

But here’s the honest truth — freedom isn’t always easy.

When my son was home, the place was alive — laughter, video games, stories, late-night snacks, all of it. But when he wasn’t there? The quiet hit hard.

The silence in that apartment had weight.

Some nights, I’d feel it in my chest — a hollow ache that made me nauseous if I sat still too long. So, I kept myself busy. Went for walks. Found waterfalls to view. Read. Did whatever I could to keep the noise in my head louder than the noise in my heart.

But eventually, I started to see the truth: the lesson wasn’t in avoiding the silence.

The lesson was learning to get comfortable in it.

I needed to sit with the quiet, process the pain, and stop running from what hurt. I wasn’t ready then — not because I was weak, but because I’d never been taught how.

I grew up believing that when something bad happens, you just move on. Keep busy. Keep functioning. Keep pretending it doesn’t sting.

But that’s not healing. That’s hiding.

So, in that small apartment — in that uncomfortable quiet — I started to learn what peace really meant.

It wasn’t the absence of pain.
It was the courage to stop running from it.